Page 5 of The Girlfriend Goal

I arrived at the campus café early. I spread my materials across the table with strategic precision. If Lance thought he could show up unprepared and charm his way through this project, the visual representation of my preparation would disabuse him of that notion immediately.

The café was filling up with the usual afternoon crowd, with study groups pretending to work while actually gossiping, couples on coffee dates, and lone students buried in their laptops.

Normal college life happening all around me while I plotted how to survive a semester partnered with my natural enemy.

My phone buzzed. Jared: "Remember, if he tries anything, you have my permission to throw coffee in his face. Hot coffee. I'll pay for your replacement latte."

I smiled despite myself. Jared's protective streak was both endearing and occasionally alarming. He'd already offered to accidentally spill something on Lance at least three times since hearing about our partnership.

Lance was late, of course. I pulled up my research document and added a note to our project timeline about the importance of punctuality when working with youth. Maybe I could work in some passive-aggressive lesson about time management—

"Sorry."

I looked up to find Lance practically jogging toward my table, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp like he'd just showered. Post-practice, probably. Because naturally his hockey schedule took precedence over our meeting.

"You're late," I said flatly.

"Seven minutes. There was a thing with—" He stopped, seeming to realize excuses wouldn't help. "You're right. I'm late. I'm sorry."

He pulled out the chair across from me, then paused. "Give me two minutes? I need to grab coffee. I'm running on about three hours of sleep and if I try to contribute without caffeine, I'll just embarrass myself."

Something about the honest admission made me wave him toward the counter.

Back at the table soon, he set two drinks down, sliding the latte toward me. "Peace offering. I noticed you drinking one in class the other day."

I blinked at the cup, then up at him. "You noticed my coffee order?"

"I'm observant. It's a hockey thing. You have to track a lot of moving pieces on the ice." he pulled out his laptop. "Plus, lavender honey is a pretty distinctive order. Not exactly a basic vanilla latte."

The gesture threw me off balance. I'd prepared for Late Lance, Unprepared Lance, even Cocky Lance. I hadn't prepared for Observant Lance who remembered my coffee order and looked genuinely contrite about being late.

"Thanks," I muttered, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. It was perfect—the right temperature, the right ratio of honey to lavender. Which was annoying. I didn't want him doing thoughtful things. Thoughtful things made it harder to maintain my carefully constructed wall of disdain.

"So," I said, redirecting to safer ground, "I've created a preliminary outline for our project. The community center has kids from ages 10-14, which means we need to account for different developmental stages in terms of cognitive processing and emotional regulation."

"Right." He opened his laptop, and I noticed him discretely angle it away from me. "I actually had some thoughts about that."

"You did?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

"Don't look so shocked. I do occasionally have thoughts that don't involve hockey or... what was it you said? Gym, tanning, laundry?"

"That was a Jersey Shore reference."

"I know. I'm not completely culturally illiterate." He pulled up what looked like actual notes. "I've worked with kids at hockey camps since sophomore year. The ten-year-olds and fourteen-year-olds are basically different species when it comes to attention span and emotional maturity."

I leaned forward despite myself. "Go on."

"The younger kids, they're all about fun.

You can teach them visualization by turning it into a game.

Have them imagine they're superheroes or their favorite players.

But the older kids? They're starting to feel real pressure.

Travel teams, high school tryouts, parents who think they're raising the next Olympic star. "

"That's actually insightful."

"Again with the shock." But he grinned, and I noticed he had one dimple, just on the left side.

"I've been that kid getting yelled at by his dad for missing a shot.

I know what pressure feels like. And what about breaking them into three groups?

Ten to eleven-year-olds focused on fun and fundamentals, twelve to thirteen in the middle with mixed approaches, and fourteen-year-olds dealing with more advanced mental training? "

I was already typing, incorporating his suggestions. "That could work. We'd need different curricula for each group, though. More time investment."

"I'm good with that. Despite what you think, I actually want to do well on this project."

"Why?" The question came out sharp, my fingers pausing on the keyboard. "You've coasted through three years. Why care now?"

He took a sip of coffee, buying time. Was he terrified of graduating without any real skills beyond hockey? Or did he desperately want to prove he was more than just a dumb jock?

"Maybe I'm tired of coasting," he said finally. "Maybe I want to do something that actually matters. These kids are at such a crucial age. The right guidance could change their whole relationship with sports. Make it about joy and growth instead of just winning."

"That's very noble."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I say that like someone who's heard a lot of pretty words from athletes who don't follow through." I went back to typing. "But fine. You want to help kids. I want to help kids. We can work with that common ground."

He was making it harder to hate him, and I resented that.

Every thoughtful comment, every genuine insight into youth sports psychology, chipped away at the stereotype I'd built in my head.

Lance was supposed to be a two-dimensional villain, not a complex person with actual understanding of performance anxiety and parental pressure.

"So what's your story?" he asked, pulling me from my thoughts. "Why sports psychology?"

"We're here to work on the project, not share life stories."

"Come on. We're going to be partners all semester. Might as well know something about each other beyond 'you hate hockey players' and 'I apparently can't read door signs.'"

I shot him a look, but there was self-deprecating humor in his expression that made it hard to stay defensive.

"Fine. My brother was a hockey player, actually.

Got recruited to Greenfield, had his whole future mapped out.

" I kept my eyes on my screen, not wanting to see his reaction.

"They pulled his scholarship last minute for a 'better recruit.

' He never recovered. Dropped out, struggled with depression, still working warehouse jobs five years later. "

"Shit. Rachel, I'm sorry. That's—"

"That's hockey," I cut him off. "That's what your sport does. Uses people up and spits them out when they're not useful anymore."

The silence stretched between us. I'd said too much, shown too much. This was supposed to be a professional meeting, not therapy.

"You're right," he said quietly. "Hockey can be brutal. The politics, the pressure, the way they treat players like commodities instead of people. I've seen guys destroyed by it."

I looked up, surprised by the honesty in his voice.

"But I've also seen it save people," he continued.

"Guys who had nothing else, no other path, and hockey gave them purpose, structure, a family.

" He met my eyes. "I'm not defending what happened to your brother.

That's fucked up. But maybe that's why this project matters.

Teaching kids that sports should enhance their lives, not define them. "

I stared at him for a long moment. I wanted to keep hating him—it was simpler, cleaner. But he'd complicated things by being human.

"That's a good perspective for the project," I admitted grudgingly. "We should incorporate that. The balance between passion and identity."

"Look at us, finding common ground. Mark the date. Thursday, the fifteenth, Rachel Fox admitted Lance Fletcher had a good idea."

"Don't push it. And it's the sixteenth."

"Right. The sixteenth." He made a show of typing it into his phone. "Should I also note the exact time, for posterity?"

"You're ridiculous."

"I've been called worse. Usually by you, actually."

This time I did smile, just a flash before I caught myself and returned to business mode.

We fell into an easier rhythm, trading ideas back and forth.

I had the theoretical knowledge—citations ready for every concept, studies memorized on adolescent development.

He had the practical experience—years of camps and clinics, understanding what actually held kids' attention versus what looked good on paper.

We'd been working for an hour, and I'd almost forgotten I was supposed to hate him. Almost. Then his phone would buzz with a text, and I'd see a girl's name flash on the screen, and I'd remember exactly who I was dealing with.

"Sorry," he said after the fourth text, flipping his phone to silent. "Group project for another class."

"Sure." I didn't believe him, but it wasn't my business. "Where were we?"

"Week three curriculum. I was saying we could bring in guest speakers. Active athletes who could talk about their mental training."

"As long as they're diverse. Not just hockey players."

"Obviously. I was thinking that soccer player who went pro last year? Melissa something?"

"Melissa Torres. She was my team captain when I was a freshman." I was impressed despite myself. "You know her?"

"We had a class together. She was brilliant. Scary intense about visualization and pre-game routines." He paused. "Kind of like someone else I know."

"I'm not scary intense."

"You color-code your color-coding system. You have backup pens for your backup pens. You arrived at this meeting so early you probably watched the sun rise over your perfectly organized folders."

"Twenty-three minutes isn't that early."

"You timed it?" He laughed, a genuine sound that did something annoying to my stomach. "Of course you timed it. Do you time everything?"

"Efficiency is—"

"Power. Yeah, I'm getting that." He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "When's the last time you did something inefficient? Just for fun?"

The question echoed what Coach Chen and Jared had asked me.

"Fun is subjective," I said stiffly.

"That's the most depressing answer I've ever heard." He checked the time on his laptop. "Speaking of which, I have practice in thirty minutes."

I started packing up my materials, each folder returning to its designated spot in my bag. "And Fletcher? Bring actual research next time. One poorly printed article doesn't count."

"Hey, I contributed plenty of ideas today."

"You did," I admitted. "But ideas need support. Evidence. You can't just wing an entire semester project."

"Watch me." He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Kidding. I'll do the reading. Scout's honor."

"Were you even a Boy Scout?"

"Hockey was my only extracurricular. Well, that and disappointing my father." He said it lightly, but something flickered in his expression. "See you Friday. Thanks for not throwing coffee in my face."

"My roommate, Jared, suggested hot coffee specifically."

"He sounds terrifying."

"He's protective. And he has a very detailed memory of every girl who's cried in our apartment after getting ghosted by a hockey player."

The lightness faded from his face. "I don't ghost people. I'm always upfront about what I can offer."

"Which is nothing."

"Which is honesty." He met my eyes steadily. "That's more than a lot of people give."